Isabella panics. He has not been in her bedchamber since that first night in Boulogne. She sends them scurrying from the room and jumps into the vast four posted bed. She brings the covers up to her chin and lies rigid, her hands at her side, as if recently buried.
I am not ready for this. Her hands clench into fists. She takes a deep breath and waits.
Will it hurt very much?
The leather curtain over the door rasps on its metal rings as he pulls it aside.
Her beautiful husband stands in the doorway flushed and harried. He barely looks at her. He strides across the room and kicks the logs in the grate, puts both hands on the hearth and stares into the flames.
“I need your help.”
“Edward?”
“I have asked nothing of you until now. I can’t stop thinking of you as an eight year old. That’s how old you were when we betrothed. Do you remember?”
She nods her head.
“You’re still just a child in many ways, but you seem to see things clearly enough. Well all right then, let’s see.”
“You want my help?”
“I know you don’t think much of Perro but this is important to me, no matter what you think.”
She had always thought that being a queen would be easier than this; she does not mind being asked for her counsel, she welcomes it, but she never expected that he would barge in to her chamber as she was readying herself for bed and then bark out the first thing that came into his head.
She stares at the ceiling. He looks at the hearth.
“They want to send Perro away. Exile him! They all stand against me on this. It will be war if I don’t.”
She wants to say: well then, do it. It’s not worth going to war over, is it? Write down the names of everyone who has stood against you, memorize it while you are building your own power. Then one day, when you are all sharing a cup of wine and smiling at each other, have them all thrown into a dungeon and keep them there until they grovel or their bones rot.
That’s what my father would do.
“I am their king! How dare they! I choose who will be at my hand!”
“You are king while you behave as their king,” she murmurs.
“What was that?”
“You must come to an accord.”
“The accord is this: I am their king, by God and by the law. I want you to help me.”
“How?”
“Talk to your father. I know you have your spies here, don’t look so surprised. They carry letters between you once a week, do they not? Well now I wish you to write a letter for me, tell him I need him to stand with me on this. If the barons know I have his support they will run back to their bogs in the Marches and remember their place.”
“They are nobles, your grace. No one can teach any of them their place.”
“How would you know? You’re twelve!” He turns from the hearth and glares at her.
“I have thirteen years now and I know this from observing my father’s court and yours.”
“Will you help me or no?”
“I will ask him, your grace. But my father will not commit his wealth or his army to an English war.”
“Tell him that these ingrates threaten my throne. It is your throne too, so he must come to know the importance of this.”
“I will serve you as best I can.”
He looks satisfied with this. “Your grace,” he says and leaves the bedchamber.
She throws back the linen sheet and lets out a breath. Well. She wonders what her father will do when he hears of this.
He does exactly as she thinks he will do; he says it is none of his affair, that the King of France cannot be seen to meddle in the affairs of England.
* * * * *
At Langley they are set for a beautiful summer; the woods are full of honeysuckle, the breezes bring with them the scent of fresh cut grasses. There are dandelions with fragile white petals ready to be plucked: He loves me, he loves me not.
The hawthorn is in blossom in the hedgerows when the king finally comes to his senses. Old Hugh agrees with the king that the barons should one day face censure by God, if not the law, but it is Lord Lincoln - the one Gaveston calls Burst Belly behind his back - who keeps Edward from a civil war that he cannot win,
The King decides to come to an accord.
He makes Gaveston Lieutenant of Ireland. It is like exile, but with honour. He travels with him when he takes ship at Bristol. It takes three days to load the ships; Gaveston has a vast household with chamberlains, confessors, clerks, falconers, archers, he even takes old Mathilda the washerwoman.
Just who is queen of this country?
* * * * *
The summer had promised so much; but for three days, ever since her king has returned from Bristol, it has rained. The middle of the afternoon and it is as gloomy as midwinter. She hears a bell ringing for Nones. Edward, the whole great length of him, is sprawled on a throne under a mural of knights in gold and vermillion riding to a tournament.
He has sent his servants away, all the lickspittles and cupbearers, the dwarves and lute players, all the whisperers and flatterers, all banished so that he might sit here and stare at the shields lining the vast hall, watch the shadows creep across the chamber and mope.
Her footsteps echo on the flagstones and the shutting of the oak door behind her sounds as if they have dropped the drawbridge without its chains.
He does not move. She believes he is crying but in the shadows it is hard to tell.
The only time she has seen grief like this was when her mother died. On that occasion her father did not eat for almost a week. But that was his queen; this is Gaveston.
“Well you have what you wanted,” he says finally.
“I did not want this, your grace. Your lords Warwick and Hereford wanted it.”
“The archbishop, Winchelsea, says he will excommunicate him if he comes back. Why do they hate me so?”
“It is not you they hate, or even Gaveston. They just wish you to be their king.”
“But I am their king! How can I be otherwise?”
“A king has obligations.”
“No! I have no obligations! It is they who have obligations - to me!” For hours he has not moved, but now, suddenly, he is animated. Rage sends him bounding from his seat. “They-have -obligations-to-me!”
She lowers her eyes. He frightens her when he is like this.
He stands over her, breathing hard. “You’re like this evil little doll. Everywhere I go, there you are. Look at you. A breath of wind will knock you over but you come in here when no one else even dares peek through the door.”
“I wish only to help you.”
“How can a slip of a girl help me in this?”
“You were ready to ask my help from France.”
“And what good did that do me?”
“My counsel may be of more use to you than all my father’s bluster and threats.”
“So you tell me.”
She ventures to put her arms around him, pats him on the back and murmurs: “It’s for the best. You and I, we might start anew from now.”
But it is like he has not heard her. He stares into an impossible future, one with just him and Gaveston in it. “I am sick of all these demands, listening to all this endless moaning and whining. Everyone wants something from me. I sometimes think Perro and I might find a snug house in the hills and plant vegetables in the sun and drink wine and live out a peaceful life.”
Did he really say that? “Edward, that can never be.”
He sinks to his knees. He makes a sound like a dog choking on a bone and covers his face. “I cannot live without him.” And then he wails and curls on the floor. She watches him, wishing she were not here. She cannot run from the room but having to watch this horrifies her. She wants to pull him to his feet but even touching him is something she cannot bear to do at this moment.
Finally he stops, exhausted. He looks up at her, his face wet, and seems surprised to fin
d her still there. “Just leave me.”
“You must turn the tables on Warwick and the others. You must be more discreet and more cunning in your ways. And you must subdue the Scots.”
“What has this to do with what I have lost?”
“Everything,” she says and sweeps from the room. It seems so clear to her.
At least she knows now how she will make him love her.
Chapter 10
My dread and very dear Majesty,
I commend myself humbly. My situation here in England is these days much improved. Edward has become most attentive since my Lord Gaveston has left these shores for Ireland and requires me in his presence constantly. I believe it may be that before he thought me too young to be his helpmate and confidante and all that was required was the opportunity for him to see my worth to him.
It seems that my Lord Gaveston has excelled himself with some honour in his new post in Ireland, and my grace the King hopes that one day he shall be allowed to return, but that day seems very far away, in England’s present mood. I believe that by the time he does return I shall be well established at Edward’s right hand. He tells me daily how much he appreciates my good counsel, though I am yet green in many matters of state. He treats me with great kindness of late and has awarded me many estates with which to finance my household.
I trust this finds you well. I remain your faithful daughter.
May the Holy Spirit keep you always
Given this day at Windsor
Isabella
Empty fields and woodlands stretch far into the distance. The river snakes grease grey through Edward’s rebellious countryside. Her ladies” gossip grates on her nerves; who has eyes for whom, children, petty scandals.
She has left the king sitting at a table with piles of paper before him and clerks at his elbow, her uncle Lancaster berating him. He looks like he wants to leap out of the window to escape. Lancaster told him he’s spending too much money, it reminded her of a father reproving a child for eating too many sweetmeats. The child was not listening. The child was looking out of the window thinking about his lover.
She watches Sir Roger Mortimer in the garden below with his brood mare and his brood. He lifts one of his little girls in the air and makes her laugh. She feels a pang.
An unworthy thought invades: he would make a fine husband, wouldn’t he? He is strong to sire, ruthless to war, calculates seamlessly and has no fancy friends.
She hears him running up the stairs and composes herself.
He seems disconcerted to see her. Her ladies twitter and stare. She wonders if he has bulled any of them and if Lady Mortimer knows of it. It seems likely.
“I was looking for the king,” he says.
“His grace is with the Earl of Richmond,” she says and inclines her head along the passage to the Great Hall. Her ladies have stopped their twittering and are staring at them. She walks away from them, out of earshot. He considers a moment and follows her.
She can feel their eyes on her.
She lowers her voice. “I hear you are to go to Ireland.”
“To assist my Lord Gaveston, yes.”
“Does he need your assistance? I have heard he has become the hammer of the Irish. If he is not putting down revolts in Munster he is terrorising the Wicklow mountains. As accomplished as you are, my lord, I wonder why the king is despatching you.”
“It is not for me to question the decisions of the mighty.”
If a French courtier spoke to her like that, she would clout him. “Is he coming back to England?”
“That is impossible. He risks excommunication from Archbishop Winchelsea.”
“Nothing is impossible. My uncle Lancaster believes that he is scheming for such a return.”
“You believe everything Lancaster says?”
“He’s my uncle.”
“He’s no one’s uncle.”
She smiles at that. He says these things without changing his expression, it takes her off guard. For some reason she imagines him kissing her the way he just kissed Lady Mortimer. Her new husband has not kissed her that way yet.
There is something in the way he looks at her. She likes it, though she would think it insolent if he were not Mortimer.
“May I speak plain? I hear so many rumours. I need someone to tell me the truth.”
“The truth, your grace? A dangerous thing. I should hesitate to be caught anywhere within a king’s palace telling the truth.”
“I hear that he has bribed the Earl of Gloucester to support Gaveston’s return, that Hereford and Lincoln have likewise been paid off with promises? If he wins over my Lord Warwick also, the rest will follow like sheep.”
“For one so young, you have an uncanny grasp. My own daughter is your age and concerns herself chiefly with sewing.”
“Your daughter is not the Queen of England. One grows up very fast.”
“Even if Gaveston should return, you have no reason to fear him. The King is seen with you everywhere now.”
“Do you think so?”
“Edward is a complex man. But I think you have his measure.” He spares an apprehensive glance at the gaggle of woman along the hall. He tugs at the neck of his tunic, as if he is being strangled.
She dismisses him with a nod. He seems taken aback by this. She is half his age and half his size.
He bows and goes in search of his king and she returns to her ladies. So, it is true, Edward is agitating for his lover’s return just as she and Edward had finally become a proper king and queen. Even from Ireland, Gaveston pulls the puppet strings. Mortimer is going to Ireland because the king knows Gaveston is coming back and he needs a strong soldier to replace him.
Why will he not tell her this himself?
Does he think that she is stupid?
Chapter 11
The king is jaunty. He lopes into the chamber, trailing minions like froth off a galloping horse. All he wishes to talk about is the banquet they have hosted to woo his recalcitrant magnates. He wages this campaign like a war, throwing largesse at his barons like heavy cavalry.
“You made an impression,” he tells her. “Your presence at the banquet was a great success! Richmond says you are the most charming dinner companion he has ever kept. Gloucester calls you the greatest gem in my crown. Who would have thought?”
“Your grace?”
She is genuinely puzzled by this pronouncement. Who would have thought - what?
“Well, you are so young. So ... “ He waves a hand airily. “... thin.”
“In France they say I am beautiful.”
“Well you are quite pretty.” He smiles broadly. “I am proud of you.”
Thin and pretty. You will hunger for me one day, Edward, you will burn for me.
“We have concord again in England.”
“There is still Warwick. And my Uncle Lancaster.”
“Lancaster,” he says and frowns as if he has bitten down on something foul. Something moves in the rushes underfoot and he stamps on it. “Your uncle was with me once, now that Perro is gone he has turned on me.”
Well, of course he has. Is it not obvious to you? She is disturbed that she can understand these petty manoeuvres and he cannot.
“You have heard that I have ordered the arrest of a dozen more Templars?”
“My father will be pleased to hear it. So will the Holy Father in Rome.”
“You will write to your father again? I would value his support.”
“Your grace, however it pleases you. But do you think it wise to bring my Lord Gaveston back so soon? You are just winning the barons back to your side.”
“They should never have left it. I am their king!”
“But we have worked so hard to court them. We should strengthen the bonds before we test them.”
The sun slips behind a cloud; the king’s good mood evaporates. “I cannot live without him, Isabella. You don’t understand.”
She feels this like a slap. She draws herself up, composing hersel
f. “Is Gaveston to return then?”
“It will be different this time, Isabella. He will be more circumspect. You have nothing to fear from him. You are my Queen. When you grow up, you will understand.”
He hurtles from the room, all energy; he wishes to hunt and calls for his falconer and his grooms and his dogs. When you grow up, you will understand.
I know there is much to understand about men and women. But I already know this much; that I will not rest until you love this thin, pretty girl as much as you love Gaveston.
* * * * *
“He says it will be different this time,” she tells Rosseletti. “He gives his word.”
Her spy stares at the floor. He looks gloomy.
“I have been at his side constantly this last nine months. Things have changed between us, I am sure of it.”
“He has written to his Holiness in Rome, asking for the threat of excommunication to be lifted. It is all that is keeping him from bringing this Gaveston back from Ireland today.”
“Let him come. He is no longer a threat to me.”
“But he is a threat to the King. The barons will not abide him any better now than they did before. Will he not learn?”
“He wishes my father to support him in this.”
“Your father will not be drawn into a civil war in England, he has problems enough of his own. He wishes only that Edward keeps his own house in order.”
“And meanwhile he lets Edward arrest the Templars and make more concessions in Gascony.”
Rosseletti shrugs. “Edward offers to do these things, your father is of no mind to make him relent. Having Edward malleable suits his purpose well enough. But if your king thinks your father will intercede with his barons, he is quite misled.”
“What shall I do?”
“Only what you are doing now. Be patient, Isabella. Your time will come.”
His sad grey eyes meet hers for a moment, then look away. They both can see what will happen; everyone but Edward can see it.
In the Spring, Parliament meets at Westminster and refuses his request to bring Gaveston back to England. Archbishop Winchelsea repeats his threat of excommunication. She thinks he will be furious but he returns from the parliament quite calm.
Isabella: Braveheart of France Page 4